I hardly want to write, I have written and written and written and deleted much of that. It’s a strange and elusive zone that one needs to enter, I think to tell a story about people one is inventing. There is so much uncertainty about where they are going and already my seemingly well-laid plans a going awry. It simply isn’t happening the way I thought it would happen and I’m only at the beginning. This is actually quite scary. Maybe I should be writing short stories. Isn’t that easier? Or is that giving up before I’ve even begun? It is. Short stories are not the plan.
I’m re-re-doing my synopsis and some of my characters are not turning out to be who I’d originally thought they were and that’s kind of frightening because I suddenly realise that I don’t know them even though I am inventing them, and there is stuff about them that I didn’t expect that is emerging, and that changes the story I thought I was telling. I have the feeling, and I know it sound insane, but I have the feeling that I’m not inventing them. They are there already and they are telling me who they are, and I’m deciphering them. My imagination is at work. And, at the same time as it being frightening, it’s quite exciting because there is so much more to them than I had originally thought. They have some depth. Some of them have some depth.
Events come to me. Things that happen to my characters, things that they do along the way, the stuff of the story comes and I must write it down immediately. I must record these events, but they are still isolated. I don’t know where this or that fits in or if it is relevant to a synopsis. I just record it, because it happened. It happened in a story that I am inventing that I have yet to write. It happened to one of my characters because she told me that this is what happened, so I write it down, and I store it. I spend time staring at the computer screen. I spend time sitting in the garden. I spend time waiting for inspiration and this is the work of my day. Sometimes, I’m on facebook wasting time.
In the last two days I have seen only T. He helped me resuscitate my car then took me to lunch, yesterday. I like the solitude, somehow. I like myself and I enjoy my own company, and I love the learning process of what I’m doing. I love the challenge of it. I am writing a book. At least, I’m starting. It takes years, I understand, if it’s going to be any good. Ah well, it will be around for posterity, and I can’t take it back once it’s published. But, that’s another subject for another day, getting published.
I read Chimamanda Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus last night. She is simply beautiful.